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in my world, there are about three general responses i could have when i run into an Ex in the street.

1.Point and laugh.

2.Vomit.

3.Run.

(sometimes a combo.)

i imagine it is awkward under even the best of circumstances. not that i can really imagine what the best circumstances would be. perhaps:

1. You run into your Ex on the way into the book signing for your best selling novel.

“oh. hello…who is this made out to? jerkface? how do you spell that?”

2. You run into your Ex in the crowd at the ribbon cutting ceremony your hometown has just put on commemorating the library and park erected in your honor.

“oh. hello. could you hold my giant scissor?”

3.You run into your Ex at the airport baggage claim returning from your honeymoon in the Maldives with your new wife who is a rockstar-slash-underwear model-slash-biochemist.

“that guy? i bet he knows nothing about the practical importance of a phenomenological theory of particles.” or “oh”

or

4.You run into your Ex in a late model pickup truck or SUV with stolen plates… reverse, and do it again. Then drive off into the night, cackling, vengeance yours.

“boom”

I’m kidding.

Sorta.

but there’s always that one person from your past where the relationship went sour like milk and you wouldn’t even want to run into them in the street without a Nobel Peace Prize in one hand and a can of ‘told-ya-so’ in the other and yet you still effing do. i know a guy like that.

in the first years and a half since that break-up i ran into that guy five times.

FIVE.

(one of the run-ins was a semi-drunken late night exchange in front of a 24-hour McDonald’s walk-up window. his friend threw a chicken mcnugget at my friend’s head. nothing good can come from french fries at 2am. nothing.)

my mother still occasionally asks

“whatever happened to that guy? he had such nice teeth!”

right. you know who else have perfect teeth, ma?

sociopaths.

at first, i’d practice all the scathing remarks and perfectly arched eyebrows that would speak volumes, specifically “eat shit volumes 1 and 2”– that is, just in case i’m not walking with my rhodes scholar super hot french and cameroonian life partner because she’s off leading a pilates retreat in mexico that week.

or, alternately, pretend i am method acting for the lead in a movie about a blind woman by specifically not seeing him.

(constantly wearing sunglasses aids this method considerably)

or, channel my inner ancient ninja and disappear into a rice paddy or the crowd of hustling rush hour commuters.

but, none of these are the right thing to do. as i’ve said – with me as well as with jennifer aniston— the best response may be to ‘just keep livin’, but the best revenge is to

live well.

so even if my future life partner IS really a rockstar and a master yoga instructor teaching a course in mexico… but isn’t here with me at the moment of concern because i don’t actually know her yet– i STILL should act as tho’ oprah is about to endorse my book on the OWN network by next week. because without the drama from that guy in my life i AM living better than well.

ok, ok, ok. all of that best inner life, fully transcendant stuff is all well and good.

but if i WAS to run into that guy again, there’d be ONE snarky thing i would definitely have to say:

i was walking down the street, minding my own business.
neither looking left or right in particular, but making eye contact with people as i am wont to do because i am admittedly a teeny-tiny bit of a townie (no shade) and i feel like it is good for neighborhood morale if everyone smiles like the non-manhattan-ites we actually are.
(regardless of how many of us would rather be manhattan-ites, but thats another story)

99% of the time – people smile back, and if i we know each other they say hello.

80% of the time they say hello even if we are total strangers and they get the “good neighbor” award for the day.

hello, neighbor.

ok,

less frequently they will think i am my sister. or think they know me from some event that happened in the early 90s by in which case again they think i am my sister. i looked like THIS in the early 90s. it wasn’t me. i promise.
i’m sorry anyway.

and oftentimes, more often than even i suspect it would happen… i get this.

friendly neighbor: miss! miss! hello, miss!

me: hello there.

friendly neighbor: can i… can i ask you something?

me: uhm… ok

(this is usually the part where i look for the clipboard where the friendly neighbor would like me to sign something for the Human Rights Campaign)

(it’s not the Human Rights Campaign)

friendly neighbor: is that your real hair?

seriously?

SERIOUSLY?

is this my real hair? is that your real question? you stopped me from a half a block away to come charging at me out of breath to ask me if THE HAIR SITTING ON THE TOP OF MY HEAD WAS GROWING FROM MY SCALP???

i’ve encountered many, many version of interaction that run from semi-harmless and inquisitive:

“is that your real hair?” “how do you get your hair to do that?” “wow!”

(no, i don’t really think my hair is worth a full-on “WOW” but it happens, and honestly its flattering, i admit it. i do this shit myself. i’ll take an accolade or two.)

but on the flip side, it can also be a beacon for crazy/rudeness:

“what IS that?”
(it’s hair, you idiot. the great tell to figure it out is the fact that its growing out of my head.)

“can you wash your hair like that?”
(why don’t you try to smell me and then find out what happens.)

“is that fabric?”
(you’re an idiot. go swallow something sharp.)

sometimes, this type of exchange is fun and i have a mini lesson on race relations with a stranger, to boot! sometimes i hear about someones jewish or puerto rican friend who also has “super curly” hair but how their hair doesn’t do “THAT” (hardy-har-har). sometimes i have to swat a reaching hand (only once). sometimes i smile awkwardly and move away slowly.

and sometimes, like last night. it annoys me.

i mean, i get it. i truly, truly do. i’ve walked around with some version of THAT on my head since the dawn of my creation – except for some ill-conceived idea to try to make THAT aka my hair do the opposite, which did not end well.

i love this bookcover. not the idea. just the bookcover

very ill-conceived.

anyway, i know that sometimes if i’m in certain places or if my hair is dyed certain colors certain people will consider THAT aka my hair a spectacle. this one time…
(wait for it) at art camp… in ROME.
i was followed around a department store by two clerks and four shopping women… no, not to see if i was stealing, but because they were taking turns reaching out to try to touch my hair and chickening out and trying again.

kids, the way to say “NO” in italian is “NO”.

anyway, i get it. people are going to stop, stare, look, point, ask, touch (get swatted), take photos unasked (seriously this happend) and generally be inquisitive. i also have a piece of metal thru the center of my face. not unlike this:

sorry, mom.

and sometimes…. sometimes my hair is the same color as the above, too.

trust me. i GET it.

but sometimes… sometimes the exchange goes like this:

friendly neighbor: is that you’re real hair?

me: (blank face) …yes. it’s mine.

friendly neighbor: …oh… well it’s GORGEOUS!

THAT
THAT is what makes me sick!

does it matter? really? really? does it matter if its mine by virtue of purchase or by genetics? does it make it any less “gorgeous”?

what if i had said “no, its someone else’s?”

well, if i had said that they probably wouldn’t have understood the joke ’til i was well on my way -if ever -as they are the type of person who chases a stranger down on the street to ask if they are wearing a hairpiece. it is always as if they are tempering their compliment on the basis of it being ‘real’ or ‘fake’. and usually they chide me if my response is incredulous because they are trying to “give me a compliment”

should i ask – “is it real what? obviously its real you can see that it exists.”

i’ve tried asking if it matters if it is real or fake if it is visibly “gorgeous”, and usually it devolves into a “conversation” about how:

As a matter of fact when I was THAT Chick Here With Those TALL CHICKS (TChwtTC)

I didn’t wait on line for shit.

And on the rare occasions it did happen my companions would stand right up in Mr.Bouncer and Miss Guestlist’s face. They would be looking so surly, so put-upon so… tall the (probably not very long in the first place) waiting time was drastically reduced.

“you too, shorty.”

And the fabulousness didn’t stop once inside.

Asides from the free entry business- being Fabulous garnered you prime real estate seating in the VIP. That means the lighting is flattering and everybody can see you but you can’t really see everybody else.

That means there are free drinks by the champagne bucketload – provided by somebody’s boyfriend in finance.

On some (rare) occasions the girls in finance would finance a bottle for themselves but that was probably just to prove a point.

(This was before the ‘ECONOMIC CRISIS IN ALLCAPS’, of course).

That means it’s a private party hosted by an agency or magazine or some photog’ or music industry type.

That means someone next to you has been in a commercial.

That means someone owns a Bentley.

That means someone’s been to a party with Diddy. With an invite.

And beside the table service bottles there’s the:

‘New Guy Trying Too Hard to Get in Good with the In Crowd’ drink

or

‘Not-Even-Close to Being VIP Dude You Met In Line for the Bathroom Who Saw You Walk Out of the VIP and Thinks You Can Get HIM In (or at least thinks he can score coke from you)’ drink

and then theres always

‘Trisexual Model Trying to Seduce You With Alcohol’ drink.

(Seriously)

Dammit.

I loved being Fabulous in the club.

I loved the VIP. I love the drinking. I love the extra space on the dancefloor.

But as much as I loved it I have to be honest– I was bad at it.

For starters, I’m only 5’5.

So sometimes –despite looking the part of THAT CHICK at all times– in order to get in I’d still have to have a TALL CHICK nearby to vouch for me.

Next, my ‘Bored’ look usually just looks ‘Mean’. Mean looks don’t get you free drinks in the club.

(sidebar: I don’t condone typical freeloading, golddigging bitchery—but in my first foray into Fabness I was fresh out of college and flat broke and interning for free. I’m not gonna look a giftdrink in the mouth.) Anyway, a mean face won’t help get your thirst quenched. Unless Mr. Drinksponsor is also a masochist and ever looking for excuse to use the classic openers:

‘Smile. It can’t be that bad honey’

or ‘Why you looking so mean?’

To which I would typically respond with “because I am mean.”

Yeah. No drinks there.

Leading to the third reason I sucked at the fab-life:

I suck at small talk.

Mean face aside, anything past ‘Hey, hows it going?’ and I’m toast. DOA DNR (Dead On Arrival. Do Not Resuscitate.) I’m rendered completely at a loss for words and left staring down at my Fabulous shoes on the Fabulous “IT” club linoleum. And you won’t be sitting at the cheerleader’s table in the VIP for long unless you can prove your worth. Those TC’s are ever wary of fresh female meat.

If you can’t rope new (rich) guys into the circle you’re just one more mouth trying to drink from the free bottle. And that’s not gonna help you keep your seat.

Another reason I’m not fabulous like that anymore is because I ‘m label conscious enough.

(sidenote:that was only an issue when I was Uptown Fab or WestSide Fab. And don’t get me STARTED on being properly sartorially Downtown, Eastisde or Hipster Fab. That’s a different rant for a different day.)

I’ll never forget the time a TC dug in my purse for the label because she was convinced it wasn’t a real Chloe bag. She was shocked/appalled/disgusted/amused that I had taken its lock off and called another TC over to inspect:

TC1:Can you believe she took the padlock off of her Chloebag? TC2:Whats the point of having a Chloe bag with no padlock?

Me: Because the zipper was actually working rather nicely on its own?

This girl knows the score.

They ultimately decided my “IT”bag was the real deal. I ultimately decided I’m not cool enough for that shit. I’m not as broke as I was as an intern (i.e. not completely). But a far cry from the point where my spending money would even merit giving a fuck about “IT” bags. My mom gave both me and my sister a REAL Louis Vuitton as a ‘Welcome to Womanhood’ present. (not to be confused with the ‘Welcome to Menstruation’ present which consisted of a giant box of pads and a ‘don’t come home preggers’ lecture. Was that TMI?) Meantime I hardly use the (gorgeous classic and fabulous) bag because its so de rigueur for a FabTC that it doesn’t even feel fab to me. When I carry it I feel like I’m trying to claim membership to a group I’m not involved with and particularly dislike.

(And who honestly wouldn’t claim me anyway.)

Sigh. I’ve not even really mentioned the GUYS in the Fab scene…

yum.

I saw enough vertical stripes in ’05 to last a lifetime. All dumb muscle wrapped in fence post. This weekend I ran into one of the TCs that I used to hang out in the vicinity of.

We were both primping in the mirror of this “IT” bar bathroom

(I should have known better than to venture higher than 42nd!)

After my gut reaction of deer-in-headlights ‘to greet or not to greet’ deliberation I took the highroad and said hello. We air kiss (seriously). Shared some small talk that was (surprisingly) not-completely awkward. She did say that the scarf on my head was ‘supercute’ but she wasn’t ‘artsy’ enough to rock it.

(Was that a dig? Awkwardly worded compliment?)

Sigh.I happened upon fabulosity by accident; but entered into normalcy (artsy-ness? sideeye.) on purpose. I don’t miss trying to decode things that people say. My feet don’t miss always having to wear 6inch heels (now I do it bc I like it). I don’t miss always being on my toes literally and figuratively. Flipside: my wallet does miss free drinks and my ego misses not crossing my fingers at the velvet rope.

All in all, I’m (mostly) glad I retired from Fab.

Or I rather, glad I quit my internship at Fab because the openings for fulltime with tenure were too few and far between. As I’m running around in my new post-Fab life I can’t help but… what? Stare wistfully? Gape and drool? Die inside slowly remembering what could have been? Uhm, I can’t help but glance over as I pass the new “IT” places. The lines are wrapping around the block, the bass is thumping through the concrete and glittery girls are tottering on too-tall shoes ingnoring the velvet rope protocol. I think to myself

“Damn! What is going on in THERE?” And have to laugh at myself when I remember that I, in fact, know whats going on in there.

I used to be what was going on in there.

I have to shake it off and keep it moving downtown– where I’ve enough moxie to get in solo.